


Time to Worry

by dragon_of_venus



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Abortion, M/M, Mpreg, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-10
Updated: 2011-09-10
Packaged: 2017-10-23 15:12:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,928
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/251768
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dragon_of_venus/pseuds/dragon_of_venus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was 1942, and Harry was pregnant with a boy. Grindelwald was at the height of power, and Harry was pregnant with Voldemort's little boy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Time to Worry

Title: Time to Worry  
Author: Dragon_of_Venus  
Pairings: Tom Riddle/Harry Potter  
Ratings: PG-13  
Word Count: 4,835  
Master List: [Here](http://dragon-of-venus.livejournal.com/851.html).  
Summary: It was 1942, and Harry was pregnant with a boy. Grindelwald was at the height of power, and Harry was pregnant with Voldemort's little boy.  
Warnings: No serious ones.  
Contains: Abortion, Mpreg, mentions of 18-year-old/16-year-old sex  
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter. I receive no money for writing this or any other work of fiction based on J.K. Rowling's creative property.  
Author's Notes: Written mostly because there were some things that bugged me about Positive.

~*~

Harry held the vial up with one hand and squeezed the empty metal wastebasket between his knees. His other hand gripped the arm of his chair. Light didn't pass through the blood-colored goop. It smelled like freshly cut grass. Harry didn't really want to _know_ what it tasted like.

He sighed and looked over at the girl who'd brewed and given him the draught. She was the Head Girl, so she must have been smart, and she'd looked confident enough in her work. Harry shook the vial slightly. The goop barely jiggled.

She smiled, apparently knowing what Harry was thinking. "It's alright," she said quietly. "You aren't the first person—not even the first _boy_ —I've ever brewed this for. Lots of little Slytherins think they're in a spot of trouble and come to me. It's always been effective in the past; never hurt anyone and it's never wrong."

Harry nodded, but didn't drink.

She pressed on. "I was taught how to brew it by someone I trust very much. It's been passed down from witch-to-witch—or witch-to-wizard, I suppose, in cases like yours—for centuries. Your own mother could probably have given you it."

Harry still just stared at the goop.

"You just drink it, then you vomit it back up, it's red, and then we go about our lives."

"And if it's _not_ red?" Harry asked, thinking a second later that it sounded much too harsh. She was trying to _help_ him, after all. He'd had to check himself on that a lot, these last few months. He still wasn't used to people with names and features so very like those he'd hated in another time trying to _help_ him in this time.

Something changed on her face, as though she hadn't really considered that a possibility before. "Well," she said, "then _I'll_ go on with _my_ life." A light had gone off behind her familiar gray eyes, and that unsettled Harry slightly even as she said, "But most of these scares turn out to be nothing." She smiled, and it almost looked real.

Walburga Black was oddly nice. Harry supposed this had something to do with his name, or rather the name he'd given her when she'd first noticed him. He'd told her that he was James McMillan, using his middle name because it was easy to remember and McMillan because he knew he'd heard it in a pureblood context before. Apparently it was a pureblood context that somehow related to the Blacks, because Walburga had immediately declared that McMillan was her mother's maiden name and had since been insisting that they must be distantly related. That Harry spoke parseltongue had only sealed the deal for Walburga. The Blacks didn't speak parseltongue, but they were only to happy to encourage the rumor that it was in their blood somewhere. Harry himself didn't mind any of this; It gave credibility to his story, made him instant friends with no fewer than _five_ members of a rather powerful pureblood family, and made him an almost instant favorite of the Head Girl. For all of that, Harry had decided not to question why Sirius' parents were claiming to be brother and sister in 1942.

Harry took a drink.

It _tasted_ like freshly cut grass, going down. That wasn't as bad as it might have been. He was just about to ask Walburga for something to wash it down with when a warm rush in the back of his throat cut him off.

It had been easy enough to introduce himself to Tom's crowd. Hermione had convinced him not to try telling Riddle he was an exchange student. Instead, she'd taught him a simple spell—which he had to cast only once, on himself—that gave everyone who saw him a feeling that he belonged wherever he was. It hadn't created any false memories of him, exactly; It had simply superimposed on everyone's minds the idea that James McMillian had always been _there_ , in the background, not doing much but certainly not out of place. The fact that this wallflower had managed to become lovers with Tom Riddle, of all people, had aroused comment, but not any more suspicion than Harry was prepared to deal with.

Coming back up, the potion tasted like grass, stomach acid, and the worst bits of the soup Harry had had for dinner. There weren't many things that _that_ wasn't as bad as.

 _At least that's over with..._ Harry thought, spitting more blue vomit into the garbage bin.

Walburga wasn't looking at him. She seemed politely interested in a tapestry on the wall instead. Harry didn't think anything of it. Even without the pregnancy issue, Harry wouldn't have blamed her for not wanting to watch him vomit.

"Never wrong, you said?"

"Never," she said firmly. "Or at least not any time I've ever heard of."

"Hm."

"Oh."

"I didn't say anything."

"Exactly." She chewed her lip for a moment in a way that looked like the complete anathema of the proud, unshakable Black façade Harry was getting used to in this time. She still didn't look over at him. "Is it blue or yellow?"

"I thought you said it was supposed to be red." Harry cast a vanishing charm on the contents of the trash can and stood up. He felt an almost surreal momentary calm, as though learning bad news was better than not learning any news at all. That wasn't true, though. No news was much, much better than bad news. This could ruin everything.

"It's _supposed_ to be whichever color will accurately indicate the sex of or lack of the fetus inside of you," she snapped. She noticed Harry carrying the garbage bin back to the corner they'd taken it from and she turned around. "What color was it?"

"One of the colors you mentioned," Harry said with a shrug. With a quick wave of his wand, he cast a breath-freshening charm on himself to get the taste of the vomit out of his mouth.

"James, don't cut me out of this _now_." She sighed. "I know it wasn't red. It's written all over your face and your voice and your—You're not much a Slytherin," she laughed. Harry forced a laugh with her. "I just want to congratulate you properly."

"I don't much _feel_ like being congratulated right now, if it's all the same to you."

"It's not," she said softly, moving over to Harry and wrapping her arms around him encouragingly. "My friend is pregnant, and it's polite for me to congratulate him." She squeezed him slightly. "So congratulations. If it's yellow it's a girl, if it's blue it's a boy." Then she let go.

Blue. It had been blue. It had been—It _was_ a boy. It was 1942, and Harry was pregnant with a boy. _Grindelwald_ was at the height of power, and Harry was pregnant with _Voldemort's_ little boy.

"Don't tell anyone."

Walburga waved a hand. "Of course I won't tell Tom. Don't worry about that."

"I asked you not to tell _anyone_."

"But you _meant_ Tom. There was never any danger of me telling anyone else, and you knew that." She sighed. "You know, this is usually the point where _I_ wash my hands of these things, but if—if you need someone to _discuss your options_ with, I'm told it's better to go to Professor Slughorn than to Madam Pritchard. Slughorn, he... he cares about the future success of his students above all else."

"He's not opposed to killing babies, you mean?" Harry said it more for appearances than anything. He wasn't sure he himself was completely opposed to killing _a_ baby at that moment, if indeed the thing inside of him was a baby. Still, Harry knew the Blacks well enough to know that Walburga would be horrified if she honestly thought for a moment that Harry was considering that option, and he couldn't lose her support now.

"You said it, not I. I only thought I should let you know. Pritchard's probably the better midwife."

"Thank you. For everything," Harry said, honestly meaning it. He nodded at her politely. "You should go to bed. I'm going to stay up a bit longer to think about things, but you've stayed up late enough for me as it is." Harry glanced at the clock on the mantle. It was just after four in the morning.

"I'm Head Girl. Late nights come with the job." She said, waving a hand dismissively. "I could stay up and help you sort this out, if you want. I understand not telling Tom, but this is a lot for a sixteen-year-old to handle on his own, James."

Sixteen-year-old. Harry managed not to snort. How many times had Harry forgotten lately that he was only supposed to be a fifth year? It was easy enough for Harry to pass as a tall sixteen-year-old, as he was only barely eighteen, and Tom hadn't questioned it much, since Tom was just as tall as Harry despite _actually_ being sixteen, but there were certain things that Harry simply wasn't used to yet. He could handle a repeat of his O.W.L. year, since he had already passed his N.E.W.T. exams in most of the classes he was taking. (The only exceptions were History, Astronomy, and Care of Magical Creatures, the last of which he was currently doing miserably in, largely due to Professor Kettleburn having more of an affinity for house elves and abraxan than thestrals and blast-ended skrewts.) He could even tolerate the frequent bullying from the older Slytherins, who seemed to feel it was their duty to keep the younger Slytherins (save Tom) in line. The hardest part was the little things: Remembering to give the right age and birthday whenever it came up, remember whenever he checked his timetable that he was a _fifth-year Slytherin_ , not a seventh-year Gryffindor. It was the little stuff that had him constantly terrified he'd blow his own cover and ruin everything.

Harry just shook his head slowly. "No. Thank you, but I need to think this through by myself."

She shrugged. "If you're sure. But James?"

"Yes?"

" _I_ won't tell Tom, but _you_ really should."

Harry gave a shrug of his own. "I think I know what he'd say."

"Oh."

"Good night, Walburga," Harry said, with what he hoped was no small amount of finality in his voice.

"Good night, James. And good luck."

Harry didn't look at her as she headed toward her dormitory. For a what seemed like ages, he sat in the darkness of the Slytherin common room, listening to the water move and contemplating his next move.

He could keep it. Maybe. It was physically possible, in any case. And then what? Carry the baby around on a, as likely as not, _doomed_ adventure to kill his father? Defeat Voldemort in the next seven months, while making sure to eat well and get plenty of sleep so his baby could be healthy? Then, once the kid was born, tell the boy that he doesn't know one of his parents because the other parent killed him? Tell the boy nothing, and let him go through life thinking half of his parents had abandoned him? Quickly marry Ginny Weasley, be sure that no photographs were taking of the birth and that the records were worded in a misleading way, and hope the boy never noticed? Take the kid, run away, live out a happy life in Canada with his son, and let the rest of the wizarding world handle Voldemort?

...Handle Voldemort himself by running away _with_ Voldemort?

It was never supposed to get this complicated. Shagging the Dark Lord had not been a part of Harry's plan. He was _just_ supposed to become close enough to the young Voldemort to get a better idea of where the remaining horcruxes might be. Ideally, that would have involved some fraternal talks over a few bottles of firewhiskey after a Quidditch game or two. Ideally, Harry would never have caught Voldemort's eyes wandering. Ideally, Harry would never have thought that he didn't really _mind_ Voldemort's eyes wandering. Ideally, Voldemort's hands wouldn't have followed his eyes. Ideally, Harry wouldn't have held still for several seconds of light caresses on his thighs, and he certainly wouldn't have arched into Voldemort's fingers when they ghosted over Harry's most personal area. Ideally, Harry would have been absolutely revolted to feel Voldemort's mouth on his lips, on his neck, on his chest, on his thighs, on the erection that he never would have had. Ideally, Harry wouldn't have woken up the next morning in Voldemort's bed, with Voldemort's _Knights_ sniggering on all sides of him and Voldemort himself already gone to make his early morning prefect rounds.

Ideally, it would all have only have happened once.

The Knights didn't even snigger anymore when they found Harry in their master's bed. Over the months, they'd progressed from laughing at him amongst themselves to shooting him blatant rude looks, to completely ignoring him, to trying to force a casual conversation, and finally to saying good morning and actually _having_ genuine casual conversations as they all got dressed. Harry had had to kick himself when he'd realized that he was actually _pleased_ with this development.

On some days, it was very difficult to remember who his 'new friends' were going to grow up to be.

He could not run away and quietly raise a son with Tom Riddle. Even if he ignored all of the serious implications that had for the future, and thus his own motives for going back in time to begin with, the idea was just too absurd. What did he expect? That they'd settle into a cottage somewhere by the sea, Tom would get a nice desk job at the Ministry, and Harry would hope his body came through the pregnancy decently enough to play Quidditch? Tom would let go of his hatred and just be content to live a normal life? It was a cozy little visual, and that was more than enough to convince Harry that it could never happen. Besides, what kind of influence would Tom, even if he never _quite_ became Voldemort, be on their son? Would it only be one son? Was Harry really willing to forget about ever seeing his friends again and make it his primary objective in life to have enough kids to keep Voldemort too busy to become the Dark Lord?

It was an utterly absurd idea. It was definitely either talk to Slughorn about getting rid of it, run away with it, or...

"Good morning, James."

Harry's eyes darted over to the boy who'd just stepped into the common room.

"Or is it good night for you?" Tom said through a yawn. "You don't look as though you've slept much."

Harry glanced at a clock. "I don't think anyone who's up at five in the morning has slept much, Tom."

"A fair point." Tom grinned slyly and advanced on Harry quickly. "Shall we not sleep _together_?" In a matter of seconds he was climbing onto Harry's lap, leering.

Sleeping with Riddle had had some success, as far as Harry could tell. Of course, he wouldn't be able to know for sure if he was learning anything useful until he was back in his own time, but on the rare occasions that he was able to get Tom to open up about his past, Harry gained invaluable insight into the boy's life, mind, and past. He'd even discovered a few places here at Hogwarts where Tom might hide his horcruxes.

Still, even when acting in the best interests of the wizarding world, Harry had his limits. Harry pulled his head back. "Yes," Harry said levelly. "Let's _not_ sleep together."

Tom looked offended. "What's gotten into you?"

"Nothing," Harry said, shaking his head slightly. "Go do your prefect rounds."

"Don't tell me what to do," Tom snapped. "If you're not interested anymore, the _least_ you could do is say so outright, you know."

Harry actually flinched away from the bite in his voice. "I didn't mean it like that," he said quietly.

"Then what _did_ you mean?"

"Just that... I'm sorry. I've got other things on my mind at the moment."

Tom scoffed slightly, standing up and straightening out his robes. "And for just how long do you intend for you mind to be so occupied?"

Harry was quiet for a moment. "Did you just ask me if I wanted to have sex tonight?"

"A bit less crudely, but yes. I actually rather _like_ having sex with you, and would appreciate knowing when I can approach you and find you in a slightly more agreeable mood."

Harry thought of the mission just in time to stop himself from telling Riddle to go fuck himself, because _Harry_ certainly wouldn't be doing it anymore. Tom was always such a charmer. It was a good thing for him he was an amazing fuck. "You know, most people in this situation would ask me what was bothering me."

"That isn't the question _I_ asked, though, now was it? To be perfectly candid, that's really not my concern. Answer the question I asked."

Harry gave a scoff of his own. "I'm not one of your Death Eaters. Don't talk to me like I am."

Tom opened his mouth to reply, but paused as the first word was still forming. "One of my wh—?"

"Knights. Your knights. I misspoke."

Tom's brows creased for several seconds, but then he appeared to let it go, at least for the time being. "Very well. _Please_ answer the question I asked."

"My mind will be less occupied when I'm no longer pregnant with your child, Tom," Harry snapped without thinking about it.

Tom paled. "Pregnant?" he repeated, switching the conversation to parseltongue immediately.

Harry nodded.

"With _my_ child?"

"With comprehension skills like this, it's no wonder you're top in every class."

Tom didn't even respond to the insult. "You have to get rid of it."

"Do you mean 'kill him' or 'give him away'?"

Tom looked for a moment as though he was going to throw up. "G—give him away? You mean like to an orphanage? Oh, James, you _can't_ do that!"

"Do you intend to help me raise him if I decide to keep him, Tom?"

"No, of course not, but—"

"Then I think I can do whatever I damn well please."

Tom shook his head quickly. "No. You can't." He didn't give Harry time to object. "I'll brew the potion, alright? We won't have to get Slughorn involved. No one will ever have to know—"

"Walburga already knows."

"No one _else_ will ever have to know. But not an orphanage, James, please. We can't just abandon it."

"So killing it is the better option?"

Tom balked. One hand clutched his mouth tightly and the other balled into a fist at his side. He paced the length of the couch several times without saying a word, then turned to Harry and lowered his hand. "Maybe if we could find a family—a _wizarding_ family—"

"No pure-bloods would have him, Tom."

"Surely _you've_ got family that would—"

"I don't," Harry said quickly. He gave Tom a look that forbid him from pressing the issue.

Voldemort paced a few times. "Fine! Half-bloods it is. Their lines are ruined anyway."

Harry shook his head.

"No?" Voldemort said, taken aback. "James, you're the one that's so against killing it. At least if we found it _a_ family—"

"It wouldn't be the same."

"Maybe not," Tom agreed, "but it might be _better_. We're just fifteen! And I've got no money. And you can't have any illusions that I'll just stop _everything_ and go start a family with you... and surely _you_ don't want all that either. I've seen professors hand back your exams. You're an excellent student. You could do amazing things. You could do amazing things _with me_. But only if we get it," he nodded downward, "out of your life."

"Him," Harry said with a sigh.

"I'm sorry?"

"It's a him, not an it."

Tom sighed. "Your sentimentality will be the death of us both."

"Only if your heartless logic doesn't do the job first."

"My heartless logic will _save_ us." He paced back and forth in front of the couch another three times before turning to Harry again. "We can't keep it."

"I know."

"You don't want to get rid of it—"

"Kill it. And you don't want to either."

"I'm quite certain you're the only one who's objected to that idea."

"And yet as soon as I worded it that way, you started talking about adoption." Harry met Tom's eyes. "You feel like he's a part of you, in some weird way. You don't like the idea of him dying."

Tom smiled slightly. "That's an interesting conclusion to jump to."

"That's the only possible conclusion I _can_ jump to. God knows you don't give a shit about anyone but yourself, so if you care about this child—"

"—fetus—"

"—you must see him a part of you, somehow."

Tom didn't argue.

Harry sighed. "And you're opposed to him going to an orphanage?"

"Violently so," Tom said. Though there wasn't a single waver in his voice, Harry didn't doubt he meant it literally. "But I might be able to tolerate a family."

Harry shook his head. "Out of the question." Tom opened his mouth to object, but Harry stopped him. "And I don't want to talk about it, unless you'd like to tell me all about _your_ problem with orphanages."

Tom faltered. He sat down next to Harry with a defeated air about him. He was still so pale. Harry couldn't help but wonder exactly what Tom was so frightened of. He'd probably never know. _Tom_ might not have entirely understood.

Harry felt like he'd just played a dirty trick. He _did_ know Voldemort's past. Tom had no way of knowing his, thanks to the occlumeny charm Dumbledore had put on Harry's watch. It hadn't been fair. All of this time with Slytherins hadn't been good for Harry.

They both got over it pretty quickly.

Tom shrugged. "I suppose it's for the best. He still might have found out about us one day."

Harry snorted. "And that would just be horrible." He knew he shouldn't argue when Tom was starting to come over to his side of things, but the statement had just sounded so indefensibly selfish.

"Have _you_ ever been abandoned by _your_ parents?" Tom asked testily.

Harry shifted uncomfortably. He didn't answer.

"One more time, then..." Tom said slowly. "I can brew it myself. Then we'll alter Walburga's memory a bit. It'll be as though this whole _incident_ never happened."

"I don't see any need to risk hurting Walburga," Harry said softly.

"I do," Tom said in a tone that left no room for argument. "Do _you_ want her to know you had an abortion?"

"Not particularly," Harry said, "But we could just not tell her. The term will end before I'd have been far enough along for it to be suspicious that I'm not showing, and she's not coming back next year."

 _The term will end._ The echo of Harry's own words sent a slight chill through him. He hadn't really thought his plan out that far. He'd brought a very limited supply of money back in time with him, and if he had family in this time—and he supposed he probably _did_ have a Grandpa Potter _somewhere_ in the wizarding world—he didn't have the slightest idea how to go about finding them or convincing them of who he was without jeopardizing everything. If he couldn’t manage to get an invitation to stay with one of Tom's friends, he was in quite a bit of trouble.

"She's not, but her brothers are. What if she asks them about you? It's safer if we just modify her memory slightly."

He had a point. Harry moaned. "Just promise me you know what you're doing. You won't _hurt_ her, right?"

Tom looked unsure of himself for a fraction of a second, but then he smiled. "Yes, James. I know what I'm doing."

"Are you _sure_?"

"Well, if I'm not sure, you could always do it yourself, couldn't you?" A cruel little sneer touched Tom's lips.

Harry's heart dropped. Did Tom _know_? He tried to keep his voice steady when he replied, "You know I couldn't, Tom."

"Then don't be too picky when other people are willing to do it for you," Tom said dismissively.

Harry sighed in relief, and Tom must have taken it for irritation, because he didn't question it.

"Come on," Tom said with a nod toward the door.

Harry followed silently. Tom led him into through the potion's classroom and casually into Professor Slughorn's storage shed. Once in there, he set to work at an old cauldron in the corner as though he belonged there, while Harry stood in the corner feeling awkward, useless, frail, and completely out of place. Tom shut down most of his attempts to start a conversation. Forty-five minutes that felt like a year passed, and then Tom handed Harry a clear blueish potion.

It made Harry uneasy to grab the drought. The color was so very similar to the color that had told him just a few hours ago that the being within him was a boy.

"It doesn't matter," Tom said gently, seeing how he was hesitating. "In three days it'll be like this whole thing was just a bad dream."

Harry smiled. _Just a bad dream,_ he repeated to himself. He downed the potion in one.

At Tom's urging, they stayed in the closet. Tom was convinced that it was better for Slughorn to find them than any of the Slytherins. Harry wasn't sure what anyone was going to catch them _doing_ if he went back to the common room, but he didn't even know what the drought he'd just drank was _called_ , let alone what its effects were. He had little choice but to trust Tom.

For five long minutes, they stood in the closet shooting awkward reassuring smiles at each other. Then pain comparable only to a cruciatus curse shot through Harry's abdomen and stomach, bringing him to his knees almost instantly. The adaptations his body had made to be able to carry the fetus were being dissolved from the inside by the potion, and the fetus was being dissolved with them. A horrible burning moved through Harry's insides, and he fought to hold back tears. How long would this pain last? Tom hadn't said. It probably wouldn't have mattered if he had. Harry lost track of the time within minutes.

At some point, Tom knelt down beside Harry and pulled him into his arms. Harry was too wrapped up in the pain to consider how unusual that was. He clung to Tom as though for life itself as the first of many whimpers broke from his lips.

"It's alright," Tom said in parseltongue. "You'll be done soon. It's not going to do any permanent harm to you. It's alright. You'll feel fine in a few minutes. Just hold on, then things will go right back to normal. Everything is fine..." He rambled on, not stopping even once until the pain dulled and, eventually, completely died away.

Harry looked down. There was no blood. He wasn't any thinner. He didn't feel like any weight had been lifted off of his shoulders, or like he'd just done something horrific and unspeakable. He pulled out of Tom's arms, crawling for a moment on the cool dungeon floor in order to do so, and when he was a few inches away, he stopped and looked at the boy whose child he would never give birth to.

They would have had a beautiful child. They would have had a horribly damaged child. In the midst of a war and irreconcilable differences of opinions, there was no telling if that would have been for better or for worse.

The world only didn't need any more Riddles.

Harry searched for the right words, but he couldn't find them. Finally, he offered, "You missed your prefect rounds."

Tom shrugged. "No one will ever know." Tom crawled closer to Harry and wrapped his harms around him again, in a very different way. "Does that vacant expression on your face mean that your mind is officially unoccupied? Because we've still got an hour before class starts..." The kiss he placed on Harry's lips was _mostly_ chaste, and he made a point of leaning back a little and showing Harry the contraceptives he'd stolen from one of the shelves.

Harry was shocked. Was that all that was to him? Was that all that _meant_ to him?

Well, it was Voldemort, after all.

Harry responded with a kiss of his own. He had horcruxes to find. There'd be time to worry about everything else later.


End file.
